


Waves

by Amythe3lder



Series: Irregular Pieces [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asperger's Syndrome, Autism, F/M, M/M, Multi, Mygolly, honestly we're missing a great opportunity here, we should call it Mygolly though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:14:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3984517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amythe3lder/pseuds/Amythe3lder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Prompt: Instrument (freespace)</strong><br/>Any loud noises were particularly grating, but the right sound at the proper moment could be transcendent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waves

**Author's Note:**

> I never loved nobody fully  
> Always one foot on the ground  
> And by protecting my heart truly  
> I got lost in the sounds  
> I hear in my mind all these voices  
> I hear in my mind all these words  
> I hear in my mind all this music
> 
> And it breaks my heart  
> And it breaks my heart  
> "Fidelity"-Regina Spektor

Mycroft had no great skill for music. This was, he reasoned, because he loved it too much. His parents had been delighted by his early interest and taught him everything they could. They exposed him to all their favorite musicians (and to a few they detested, for the sake of equanimity) before his mother determined that he should learn piano.

His older brother had certainly picked it up easily enough, but remained mostly unimpressed by the whole thing. Sherrinford was happier when he was active, and was not as apt to be ensorcelled by a melody as Mycroft was. At bedtime, the oldest Holmes boy always chose a story over a lullaby. It made it that much sweeter when he’d relent and let Mycroft pick.

Being taught an instrument by a mathematician should have made perfect sense. Instead, it was grueling and painful for both mother and son. Mycroft had understood how vibrations made noise, watched with fascination when the lid was lifted to show the little hammers ponging the strings, pressed his ear to the side until his hair was damp with sweat and his head ached. He had the patience to kneel upright on the bench so his small fingers could reach the keys, and he was technically capable. But if he found a note that he liked, he kept it. And still. Until he rode the oscillations back to the shore. This drove everyone else in the house completely bats, and his mother despaired that he seemed incapable of counting the beats.

Then Sherlock happened, and Mycroft had another reason to adore his baby brother when the tot managed not to make friends with the many pitches. Withstanding the first several months of screeching had been a labour of love, but once Sherlock gained some proficiency, there was nothing more soothing than listening to his progress on the violin.

Voices had proven trickier to understand. (At first.) Mycroft had found sarcasm an especially slippery thing to grasp before he'd made his discovery: the nuances of any emotion became easy to perceive if he imagined that everyone was singing. He could translate the tones back out of the language he knew. This method made musical theatre uncomfortable, but he figured it was a fair trade.

Quiet places spelled welcome to him. Disorganised noise was a struggle to process and it was far too easy to become frustrated with the people causing it before he had a chance to remind himself that most folks had aural filters and didn’t even notice the scraping of their chairs or tapping of pens. The Diogenes had been a godsend in the pursuit of focus and being able to think his own thoughts without the cacophony of mutterings present in most places. Any loud noises were particularly grating, but the right sound at the proper moment could be transcendent.

Music remained captivating in the truest sense. He could drift in the stream of a tune without being distracted by the stones on the river bed so long as he wasn’t the one playing, and the logical rhythm of other people keeping time poured steady peace into his head. Mycroft had resigned himself to listening without contributing until Molly Hooper's first gift to him revealed how seriously she took songs.

She had presented him with a modern version of a mix tape in the form of an MP3 player before his trip, and he'd realised that he had met a fellow native speaker. Now, as his plane began its descent into Heathrow from his unspeakably dull summit meeting, his head stayed above the heavy clouds. He was borne up by the music on his new playlist and the thoughts of the two lovers he was returning home to. He considered Molly’s singing and recalled seeing an old guitar at Gregory’s flat.

Maybe it was time to have the piano tuned. 

**Author's Note:**

> I should explain that this is basically chapter 13 of _Happiness Shared_ from Mycroft's perspective.These are his thoughts on his flight home to London before he turns up in Molly's kitchen by way of the fire escape. (That was one of my favorite chapters to write, by the way.)


End file.
